،شب و روز بدلتے ہیں پیر و مرشد تیرے
اچھا نہ ہوا خدا نے  جو ولی نہ کیا؟

،قبلہ جو اب ہے درست، یہ سمبھالے رکھ فہد
ولایت سے تو گیا، اب  منافقت سے بھی جاۓ گا کیا؟

 


Shab-o-roz badalte hain peer-o-murshid tere,
Acha na hua Khuda ne jo wali na kiya?

Qibla jo ab hai durust, yeh sambhale rakh, Fahad,
Wilayat se gaya, ab munafiqat se bhi jayega kia?


 

Wings Where They Belong

 


It is easy to find seagulls living in isolation from the company of crows.
Who finds seagulls befriend a crow, frantic at the charity they finally get,
where ultimately the latter flies ways.

The sea is too much a splendor,
broken rooftops reveal greater treasures
save for one who has eyes but no sight.

Paths where clasped hands walk,
from there shoo robins.
One hand with grains pulls a dozen sparrows.

Why cuckoos conceal themselves and sing on branches, I finally know.
It fears not the hawk,
the hawk is much too merciful on the tune.

Why rant of flying when you fly not, you flee?
Jibrael shakes his head at the words you speak.
In reality, these are wings where they belong.

Turn to the pigeons now, revolving round the Ka’aba,
ecstatic like the planets.
Dying echoes of Bilali azaan in their heads.

Painted walls bring a headache, their stench.
It is humbler to perch upon raw brick’s wall.
Or better yet, no walls.


 

The Exorcism


to ZA


Horrendous compulsions, dreary as void, consummate.
Illuminating paths, all ignis fatuus, I mark and execrate.
Guilty pleasures, filthy measures, make me whole
(Conceal me not but stir and expose me bold)!
Journeyed forth to the Patience Stone and back,
And yet no delight did I find… Alack:
Found but this Alabaster, drenched black in sins.
Change me please, I plead; wanton demons challenge many a rinse.
But mute is this Rock; You are no miracle, I chant!
Empty of veneration, left I at my own command. Continue reading “The Exorcism”

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Withering Agent


Let the dust and smoke of this world collapse into your lungs.

Do not from it repulse. They are not enough of withering agents.

 

The real one is the barren desert, still and empty,

that dwells inside one – a possible breeding ground.

 

It is not the barrenness of that place that makes it barren.

Only the perception of that barrenness as barren.


 

Devastation


We are standing there

from where, news of our own self

does not to us come.

 

… Dying in desire

for death. Death keeps appearing,

alas, does not come.

 

With what face will you

be reaching Lord’s house? Shame till

you yet does not come.


ہم وہاں ہیں جہاں سے ہم کو بھی
کچھ ہماری خبر نہیں آتی

مرتے ہیں آرزو میں مرنے کی
موت آتی ہے پر نہیں آتی

کعبہ کس منہ سے جاؤ گے غالبؔ

.شرم تم کو مگر نہیں آتی


Made a little haiku poem out of last 3 stanzas of Mirza Ghalib’s legendary ode – which coincidentally – terrifically – reflects my current state of devastation.


Scathed Susurrus


Night maunders thick,

Blotched with dim-lit stars that yet bother to strain.

Barking, howling dogs; crickets chirping in distance,

Dreary streets lit only by sullen lights

Of not the moonless sky.

 

Heaths lay bleared;

Some anchor is this night – its very air awry.

A grim reminder of a once successful transaction,

Now beyond expiration

(26th’s marked on the calendar; oh now I see, now I see).

 

With vile breath,

I taint the air murmuring your name.

A name so divine – chunk of lead on my tongue –

Gulped by the leering air around –

Left behind are trails of scathed susurrus now.

 

Glistening tears simmer,

Underneath sheaths of these wretched eyes

That once worked like that of a basilisk,

Snuffed out vapid are now, like that of a man blind;

Lonely I’d lie again tonight.


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